What Makes You Feel Alive
by rizlow
Summary: The world is bleak, the struggle endless after Croatoan. You and Dean do what you have to do to keep going. One shot.


You storm out of the cabin, the door crashing against the wall as you exit, and you are down the stairs and a hundred yards away before you hear any reaction behind you. The skies are gunmetal grey and roiling, the air thick with humidity, but you ignore the sharp flash of lightning and loud rumble of thunder as you walk off your fury - not that there's far to go within the confines of Camp Chitaqua.

You hear him shout after you, but you ignore him, walking around the side of the last building in the row, and you keep moving, not wanting to hear anything he has to say. The wind is beginning to pick up, and fat raindrops are starting to pelt you, quickly dampening your hair and clothes. You're not surprised when you feel him grab your arm – he never likes it when someone defies him, especially in front of everyone, and you knew he wouldn't let your outburst go without a response.

He jerks at you, turning you around to face him, and you yank your arm from his grasp, glaring up at him. "What the fuck was that about, Y/N?" He is wearing a furious frown, his green eyes dark with anger, his jaw working as he demands an answer from you.

"You don't give a single shit about any of the people you're putting in harm's way, do you? Fuck the consequences, just kick the dead bodies aside and keep on moving."

"You have no idea what it takes to keep this place safe! We're in a goddamn war, Y/N. And I can't afford to have you challenging my authority in front of the camp."

You laugh shortly, scoffing at his words. "Your self-imposed authority. You decided you were in charge, and no one dares to stand up to you. You're a cocky asshole, Dean, and you won't listen to anyone else. It's always 'my way or the highway' with you, and I'm sick of being treated like one of your minions." You start to turn away again, but he grabs you and slams you against the back wall of the building nearby.

You manage to slap him once before he traps your hands in one of his, pinning your arms above your head. He crashes his lips into yours, his work-hardened body pressing close, and in spite of your anger, you can never resist this man. You can taste the whiskey he was drinking just a few moments ago as his tongue battles with yours, and he nudges your feet apart with one booted foot, grinding himself against you, his thigh holster digging hard into your thigh. This is how it always is with him – hot, hard and heavy, and you hate that you love it so much.

You nip at his lip, hard enough that he pulls back slightly with a grunt, his eyes burning into you. It's pouring rain now, and the roof overhang doesn't offer much protection from the storm, but neither of you care. He still holds your arms immobile as he fumbles with your long skirt, bunching it up until he can reach your panties, shoving his hand inside, and your body responds of its own accord, thrusting against his rough touch. He kisses you hard again as he shoves two fingers into you, rubbing the heel of his hand hard over your throbbing clit, and you whimper into his mouth.

"Yeah, who's in charge now, baby?" he growls, and then he's kissing you again, ripping your panties off your body and pulling at his belt. Rivulets of water are running down his face, dripping from his eyelashes, and you've never seen anything sexier in your life. He pulls his erection free from the confines of his pants, grabbing one of your legs to wrap it around him as he drives himself in to the limit, causing you to cry out, bursts of pain-edged pleasure slamming through you with every violent thrust of his hips. His gun and thigh holster are jabbing into your leg with every move he makes, and you can already feel bruises forming, rain is running over your face and down your neck, your arms are being scraped raw against the rough wood of the cabin behind you, and you don't care about any of it. All you feel is the heavy heat of him pounding into you, the sound of the grunts being punched out of him with every thrust, the delicious aching tension building up in you until you can't bear it any longer, and you scream into the storm as your muscles seize up with the blinding detonation inside you. You hear him shout in response as you clamp down around him in seemingly endless spasms, and he fucks into you even harder for a few strokes before ramming into you hard, your body pinned against the wall as he pulses within you, the heat of his release flooding you.

Neither of you move for a time, chests heaving against each other, and he lets your wrists slip free as he braces himself against the building. You lower your arms, taking his face in your hands, and he avoids your gaze, guilt evident in his eyes. He lets go of your leg, and you stand, leaning back against the building, pulling him to you, kissing him, pouring into it every emotion that swells within you. This is what makes you still feel alive in the desolate wasteland the world has become. He is what makes you feel alive, and you know that he feels the same way. This is how you are together. This is how you deal with the never-ending stress, the constant tension, the eternal battle. He knows that your anger is not aimed directly at him. He knows that you need this, you need to strike out at something, anything, and he's never been one to dodge a bullet.

This is how you are together. There will be no apologies. You don't talk about it, you just fight and fuck and scream at each other, and then go about your business. You both know how you feel, even though no words have been said. And now you will go back to your lives, go on with the fight, and you will hold each other at night, the only comfort there is left in the day to day struggle for survival.


End file.
